Work Text:
Peter Pevensie prays to a god he doesn’t quite believe in for relief, for safety. He pulls his youngest to his chest and cradles her close amidst war and clutches his eldest’s hand in his own.
Edmund sneers at him from where he crouches not a foot away.
His sisters offer him weak smiles as they emerge into searing sunlight and his brother ignores him altogether, his mother’s hand leans against his shoulder.
She sends them away, tags pinned to their coats and his world pressed into his hands, small fingers curling in his coat and in his palms.
The Professor is interesting and maybe in another lifetime he would have the time to truly explore and satiate his curiosity, but for now he smiles as warmly as he can and does his level best to entertain his siblings. For now, for now.
Peter is not a pious boy, but right now he prays, he prays for relief and safety and for a weight that doesn’t push him into the dirt.
He can’t hold them up forever he is all too aware, he is their shoulder to lean upon and he wonders what havoc it will wreak when he finally shatters like the brittle glass he is.
Lucy is hurt, something hurt her, he doesn’t know how to fix it, Susan does her best, but it’s not until they tumble through the wardrobe after Edmund that she seems to finally brighten.
Peter prays, and prays, and prays.
So, Narnia steals them away, answers his prayers of reprieve and settles a different world upon his shoulders. She etches Her mark into the tear stains that trace across his cheeks still plump with baby fat. She tears into the muscle of his back, plants the roots of Her kingdom into his skin and stitches him back up with blood and tears and his Susan’s careful hands and his Edmund’s calloused palms and his Lucy’s aching heart.
His children, his siblings , his.
His.
Carefully, he helps what is his to their feet.
The crown sits heavy on his brow, the sky stretches into the north before him, the mountains call to him and he takes Narnia’s roots and uses them to tie his feet to the floor.
Narnia is everything, She murmurs under their feet and whispers in their ears and Susan smiles more warmly, Edmund brushes against his shoulder, Lucy grins brighter more often than they have since Father left.
They are his monarchs and his sistersbrotherkingqueens.
The first day as High King, Peter prays to his country, to the Lion, that he will not shatter and Lucy’s hands tighten around his like she could hear his pleas, he whispers to her that he would never let himself falter.
Peter sews Aslan’s effigy into his sleeves and his Susan kisses the mane, smears blood-red lipstick across the pure fabric. Peter stains the cuffs of his trousers bright with blood and mud and his Edmund hands him his boots with stained hands. Peter invokes the Lion’s name in the dead of night, prayers dripping from his lips in strings and his Lucy twines her hands through his and knocks her forehead to his trembling hands.
Narnia watches their Boy King with bated breath, smiles broadly when he doesn’t falter, when Narnia’s roots don’t rip him apart and instead burrow into his lungs, his heart.
He grows.
He raises his children.
Carefully, he presses a gentle palm to Edmund’s shoulder the day he completes his schooling, brushes away the tears and dances with him for joy.
Susan stumbles to him on the first day of their second spring and he bundles her close to his chest, runs a careful hand through her hair and later she leads him out into the sun.
Lucy is wild, she runs through the forest in pitched giggles and he catches her wrist before she goes tumbling down cliffs, and she pulls him with her as sets off once more.
They grow.
He tears into the mountains and their giants with Narnia’s will tracing his steps. Peter leads armies and wars and signs treaties and deeds.
The Stag is a bright point of something , they go chasing after it and Peter won’t quite forgive himself for letting himself forget.
They go tumbling back through the wardrobe and they go tumbling back through decades and his too-dull teeth press into his too-soft tongue and relief is bitter as it wells in his child-mouth.
An old familiar weight curls around his throat like a snake, and Peter pulls his siblings to their feet.
The tags are wrinkled and torn as he pulls their coats ‘round their shoulders.
Their mother is as familiar as that weight and he lets his shoulders sag under her arm, a feather-light kiss skims across his forehead and he bears rapidly sharpening teeth in a twisted, brittle smile.
He is terribly alone in this cold being of England, England is not kind, He laughs as Peter slogs through his days and grins widely as he barely keeps from shattering.
Peter misses Narnia deeply. Peter does not forgive Narnia, he buries his love for her deep in his chest and casts aside the remnants of her magic in a desperate attempt to sink back into his child-self. Lucy gathers up the shreds of his country and shoves them back into his arms and tears open his stitches and replants Her roots.
Lucy has always been far wiser than he, that doesn’t stop him from reminding her of how to speak the Old Language when she forgets.
His knuckles ache with bruises and blood is smeared across his chin but he squares his shoulders in a poor imitation of what he once was, aside Susan purses her lips, tilts her head down in disappointment and her touch burns when she pulls him back gently.
Edmund offers a hand, they carry the luggage through the station.
Narnia is not ready to let them escape Her lands.
Narnia calls for them, desperation tainting Her magic, Asian’s magic.
The sea water stings as it washes him clean. His children- His siblings- Their shrieks of joy and laughter mingle with his own and the sun beats down on them as they splash and play like the children they aren’t.
Peter Pevensie is a pious man and when he stands where his throne once sat amongst the dull ruins of his once-home all he can do is pray. Come nightfall he tips his head to the sky and pleads for hope and for pity. He prays for safety and he begs for relief. For once, Narnia does not answer.
She is dying, She is dead, She is a wild animal begging for scraps at his feet.
Peter retches into a bush at the soonest opportunity.
Narnia groans beneath their feet as blood drips from Rhindon’s blade in a steady rhythm and sings for Her Kings and Her Queens.
At his side, Edmund sways with the breeze and in even movements he presses his shoulder to Peter’s. Peter twines his fingers through Edmund’s.
Caspian will make a good king. Peter leaves his nation with a press of bloody hands to dark, rich soil and steps away as Kingsblood tulips bloom.
Peter has never felt need ‘nor want for marriage or anything that it might entail, yet he thinks this might be the closest he will ever get to it, this love he holds for his nation, for Narnia Herself.
When they return, Peter sneaks out of the house at the soonest opportunity. His mother is easy to slip past, his siblings not so much. They watch him as he leaves, but they do not follow.
The church is regal, glorious. In the dimly lit cathedral, pews kneel before the pulpit in solemn reverence.
Quietly, surely, Peter makes his way to the back of the church, pressed into the back corner a display of votive candles provides a warm glow. A box of matches sits next to it. He counts twenty-five votive candles, five of which are lit, six more are burnt out.
His hands tremble as he strikes the match. Fire flares, before dimming again as he carefully guides it to an unused votive candle.
Blowing out the match, Peter can’t tear his eyes away from the candle.
Peter is not Catholic, not in the sense of belief. He has attended Mass and he was baptized as an infant, yes. But, Peter’s religion is the Lion and his country, it is the people that used to rely on him for nourishment and for protection, it is his children his siblings.
He mourns.
For Narnia, for Susan, for Lucy and Edmund who, if they ever should return, would do so alone, and for himself.
Peter walks out of the church, he can feel eyes on him. No person is in sight.
Susan goes to Mass every Sunday morning, she receives Communion, she goes to Confession once a week, she refuses to light a single votive candle.
Susan drifts from Narnia, from her siblings. Peter can’t blame her. He does his best to curb the arguments and the blame that rises up and leaves her be, he tucks his youngest beneath his arms and murmurs to them in the Old Language, whispers lullabies to them that their mother can’t make hide ‘nor tail of. He looks at them in their child-bodies and tells Edmund to just try his best, he tells Lucy that she will always be loved by Narnia and Her monarchs.
Peter survives, and his siblings survive with him.
Lucy and Edmund journey through a painting and return to regale him with tales of a rotten boy turned regal dragon. They are stronger than they’ve ever been and he waits to weep for despair until they’ve left the room.
Peter survives and he bundles his siblings close when it finally seems to register that they can never return.
Lucy cries for hours one night, he presses a kitchen knife into her hands and teaches her how to properly cut an onion.
Susan doesn’t believe, she laughs scornfully any time he tries to speak in the Old Language and scoffs when he speaks of the Gentle Queen.
Edmund pukes the first time he sees the sea, Peter rubs his back till he’s finished.
It’s mundane, it’s horrible, it’s unforgivable.
They survive.
Then, he is invited to dinner.
For a moment, for a moment, when the ghostly figure sits at the table with them he is High King once more and his children sit at the table with him.
(Peter knows he will not survive.)
He can’t leave Narnia to die without him there.
He and Edmund dig up the rings and they are so happy, they board the train and they are filled with joy and glee and- they die.
Susan is left alone.
Lucy doesn’t quite understand, he thinks Edmund is just beginning to.
Narnia groans beneath their feet, She is all too aware of what is to come and when Kingsblood flowers bloom with his every step he knows She is ready.
They watch Narnia die and with the Last King of Narnia they step through the stable door.
Aslan expects, He waits for Peter to pull it closed behind them.
Peter closes the door.
Further up and further in they go.
Peter is no pious man, but he is a devoted man, he is hungry and Narnia offers the last of Her people and he devours their hearts whole.
Blood drips from his fingertips as he dances in the afterlife, his children at his side and he mourns for the lives they led and he celebrates what is to come and he prays for Susan a life well led.
Long years later the last of his children steps through Cair Paravel’s doors and he welcomes the old woman in, arms wide open and Susan falls into them for what will not be the last time. Her lips are stained blood red with lipstick.